A Day in the Hell Life
by InzanityFirez
Summary: A collection of one-shots set during Dean's time in Hell.  A look at what Dean might have become in order to adapt, and Alastair's growing admiration for his 'talented' apprentice.  Rated M for painful torture and Hell-themes.
1. Year Ten: Jaded

**I guess I'm still jonesing for some AlastairxDean [platonically] after all. XD So...we'll see what happens with this, because I really want to play with Dark!Dean. **

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_"That's right, Dean. Ease her in slow. Take your time, enjoy it." _

Dean focused his gaze on the subject before him. Once, he would have called her beautiful. She was leggy, with soft-skin and big blue doe eyes that just begged for attention. Curvy, with those pouty lips and a whole mess of hair-the kind he'd liked to run his hands through. And there was her voice, kind of low for a chick, sultry though and gentle.

Well, it had been, anyway. Until her throat had gone raw from screaming.

Dean withdrew the knife he'd inserted under her ribcage with scientific detachment. She screamed and her whole body shuddered. A thick sheen of sweat glistened on her bare skin and he would have found that sort of 'impassioned' state attractive once, just like her. But now it was almost repulsive in the same way that one might find an animal cute, until they'd seen it strung up by it's own meat.

And that's what these souls were. Meat. To be carved up, roasted, sliced, diced, and spat out again good as new. He didn't make the rules, he just played by them. That was the only way to go from being 'meat' to being 'substance'.

Alastair instructed him to enjoy it. He didn't, not really, but there was some satisfaction to his promotion in the status quo.

Dean had worked on her long enough, there were other fish to fry. By now, the woman was a mess in her own skin. Just a bloody piece of meat, ready to be cooked. Dean prepared the meats, but it wasn't his job to cook them up, so-

"Next." Dean's voice was void of emotion, void of pleasure or pain, void of anything really. It was a command that a lesser being might have called 'chilling', but that the demon in charge of keeping up Dean's supply found perfectly acceptable.

"No! No, please! No!" The woman's scream was shrill and she sobbed as she was jerked off of the rack. The demon who pulled her dug his fingers into one of her newly-made slices and she shrieked as she was dragged away.

A man was placed before Dean. Average height, on the pudgy side and somewhat balding. He was a sleezy, business suit-type, not that he had anything on at the moment.

The demon assisting the process smirked. "Fresh meat. Sold his soul to keep his corporation successful. Also has a fancy for jail bait in the single digits, if you catch my drift. Several of those feminine baits are now baiting worms."

Now, truth be told, what did it really matter what sins a slab of meat had committed? And what the Hell did it matter to a demon or a damned soul anyway?

But the demon had to get his kicks somehow, and he'd worked with Dean long enough to know that cases like this...piqued Dean's more creative tendencies-and thus provided him with far better entertainment. So it was worth indulging Dean's kinky [as he saw them] habits.

Dean, whose expression had been professionally blank-kid learned quick-flicked his gaze up to the demon before him and then the man on the rack. The man had wet himself, the filth, and he was babbling something about all the things he'd give and could do-if he'd just be set free-pleading, begging for mercy, threatening too-in the way one might expect from cowardly pieces of shit.

Dean understood loud and clear. The man before him liked little girls, and his 'liking' had turned deadly.

Which meant that Dean's mistrations were going to be...excelling.

"Please! Let me go! I'm begging you! I'll do anything!"

"Anything?" Dean's voice was still blank, matching his gaze as he tilted his dulled green eyes on the man before him.

"Yes! Yes! Just please let me go!"

Dean seemed to consider that a moment as he picked up a screw-driver shaped object from the table. It had little razors potruding from it at all angles, and he spun it around in his hand idly before he looked back at the man. "Is that what they asked you?"

"What?" The man didn't understand as his flabby body quivered.

"The girls. Is that what they asked you?"

The man paled several shades before he seemed to grow flustered. "I-I don't know what you're talking about! Please, just let me-"

The little screwdriver object found it's way into the flesh of the man's upper thigh as Dean twisted it and then jerked it out. Blood pooled as the man began to scream and Dean calmly brandished the tool before the man's face.

"Try again. Is that what they asked you?"

"Y-You're crazy! You slime! You'll pay f-for-"

This time, the screwdriver found purchase slanted in the man's chest flab, where Dean jerked it sideways and the man shrieked.

"Next time, this goes through your tongue. Is that what they-"

"Yes!" The man half-gasped, half-cried the word. "They begged me. They were disgusting and sniveling and...agh! Please! I never meant to hurt them!"

"No? Just take them because you wanted them, right?"

"You don't understand." the man moaned.

"You're right. I don't understand what makes shit like you tick. But we're gonna find out." Dean abandoned the tool in favor of a scalpel as he made his way towards the man. "First, though, I think we'd better get rid of the the little dick downstairs." Those words had a literal and figurative meaning that made the man's screaming start anew.

...

"He really has potential, doesn't he? " Alastair's voice was almost proud as he watched Dean with something like greedy anticipation. He couldn't help it. Dean was an enigma. What had started out as tearing apart the Righteous Man for the 'big plan' had turned into a fascination that he couldn't deny. Dean had lasted thirty years. Never, save for Dean's father and a few very rare exceptions had a human lasted a year. Let alone John's hundred, let alone Dean's thirty. It had been centuries since he'd had an apprentice that could even come close to his own talent and ease. Dean was a hunter, like it or not, he knew his way around a weapon.

And, in the same vein, he damn well knew what to do to make it hurt.

The demon beside him, a former apprentice of Alastair, eyed Dean with something like curiosity. "And to think, he's Heaven's great Righteous Man. Those bird-brains upstairs are bigger idiots than I could have imagined."

Alastair's lips quirked in amusement as Dean 'decapitated' the man he was working on. He had a way with the scalpel. Artful, really. "Who knows...when it's over, maybe Dean here will be playing for our team."

The demon beside him snorted. "Yeah, and maybe one of those bird-brains will join the party. All that potential, wasted on the crazy-guy. He still wants to pretend he's some kind of hero. He only gets this good when he's dealing with that kind of trash."

"Potential is potential." Alastair disagreed. "And besides...I personally find madness to be a very appealing trait."

"Sentimentalist."

Alastair chuckled in reply, content to watch Dean's latest blood-batch unfold. The boy had started out so...unwilling. All full of that 'Righteousness', perhaps? But in the end, he'd broken, and once he'd discarded his humanity and all that it implied, he'd become...quite the prodigy. True, his penchant for 'just' torture was a bit...unappealing. But he made up for his poor taste with the sheer skill and grace of his work. Dean's sloppy start had graduated to something highly valuable indeed. So yes, he could certainly spare the time to watch. His next appointment, the evisceration of an egoist priest from late Vienna, wouldn't be for another hour or so anyway.

...

The man before him should have been dead at least ten times over: but this was Hell, so the little shit was still kicking. Albeit sans a few organs, an ear, the tip of his nose, and several portions of skin and muscle, and plus the little parasitic worm he'd shoved into the man's stomach. Hell was full of little beasties like that.

The man had all but lost his voice amidst his screaming and begging, and he watched the man's stomach churn as what was left of his organs were slowly consumed.

Dean examined his tools a moment before he plucked a fork-shaped object from the table. He'd discovered that if done correctly, the eye could still see and perceive images even when detached from it's socket.

And that it was painful beyond all reasoning.

Dean found himself humming a Metallica tune as he headed for the man, just one of the little quirks of the 'other Dean' [as he considered him sometimes] that popped up occasionally. He didn't remember much about the old Dean. As in, the man he'd been before Hell. Dean had some vague notion of him, and that he was in fact, technically him. There were memories as well, distant though they were. But it was like looking at a photograph of himself he couldn't remember having been taken. It was him, undeniably, irrefutably, but he wouldn't have said so if the evidence hadn't been there. The concept of being that man was too outlandish, too full of hope and regret and pain, too full of that puppy-eyed little brother named 'Sammy'. The only name that ever came to him with any real clarity.

_That_ Dean had been full of a whirlwind of emotions and burdens. He'd been utterly devoted to his family, generally so to his friends, and willing to sacrifice himself for a greater good that was vastly beyond his comprehension.

This Dean couldn't understand the feelings. He'd detached himself from them and from the Other Dean. This Dean ran on survival instincts and self-preservation, along with the occasional bits of power-play. Because, admittedly, it was a bit intoxicating to be on the top. To be the one dealing pain instead of receiving.

But whenever a man like this came along, he always went the extra mile. This Dean supposed that it was a trait left over from the Other Dean. Something slid into his stomach, a sick, leaden feeling that made him want to lash out when someone like this entered his grasp. Anger, maybe, if he could have felt it. Disgust. Revulsion. The desire to correct the...wrongness that he found there.

But right and wrong had no place in Hell, so he didn't bother thinking on it.

Instead, he allowed himself the strange satisfaction he got at inflicting pain on those sorts in particular. He supposed that that was 'justice' to the Other Dean and placated the bits of him that must of remained buried somewhere inside of him. A balm to that bleeding, injured soul he couldn't comprehend, and didn't dare touch upon.

Still. As Dean stood before the man before him and brandished the fork, quite desensitized to what remained of his screaming and his convulsive writhing, he had to admit...

Sometimes...he really did enjoy his job.

...

**So...not exactly DeanXAlastair. [Al's into voyeur, apparently XD] And more...Hell!Dean than Dark!Dean...And maybe pretty gruesome, although I tried to keep it from being too much so. This is pretty much how I view Dean in Hell, I guess. Sort of. Maybe just a possibility. He just gave in to basic instinct and sort of shoved his humanity and memories into the corner. But being that he's Dean, flickers of the man he was still come out occasionally. Like when he's torturing the real bad guys. And then he when he dug himself out of the grave, he'd gotten forcibly thrust out of his corner with all that added torment built in. Or something. I'd like to think of it that way, as opposed to Dean just being a heartless dick or something, and I can't imagine that he could have had much emotion while he was torturing, he would have tried to ignore it anyway. Dean can be pretty cold when he wants to. He's a hunter, after all. XD And Sam still haunts him most of all in the back of his mind.**

**I dunno. I tried. So please enjoy. Or pretend to. And leave me verbal hugs and such, if you feel so inclined. [And don't want to make Sammy cry because his brother's pain is being ignored? Or something?] XD It will balance out all of the soul-crushing angst I dipped into writing this. XD -Witchy**


	2. Year One: Tools

**This was supposed to be a one-shot, but some kind souls put it on their alerts list and compelled me to make it a one-shot series instead. So thank you for alerting and reading, I appreciate it immensely! By the by, my one and only reviewer [who rocks, by the by XD] noted that Dean professed to taking pleasure from torture, which I did recall and actually kind of based the whole story on. But he also said that he liked being the one to deal it for a change, [don't remember the exact phrasing]. At this point, the previous one-shot was in his final year in Hell, he was pretty jaded, numb, almost going through the motions and yet, not. It's Hell and he's Dean, what can you expect? So based on what he'd said, I tried to portray Dean's better character by making it not that he got his rocks off on torture, but that he liked the power-play and role reversal. Being the hunter rather than the hunted, so to speak, and I think it's fairly reasonable as opposed to interpreting his words as him getting all pleasure-ey over torture. I think the pleasure wasn't in the torture, but in the freedom and being free of his own pain for the moment. But to even it out, I threw in him actually enjoying it when there was a real baddie in front of him, still giving him a possible sadistic side-balanced out by his own 'Righteous' nature. I do think Dean likes to fight, which can also translate into liking pain-causing. XD If that makes sense. XD **

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_Year One_

"..At which point, you would insert the knife here." Alastair dug the blade deep into the woman's flesh beneath her ribcage. "And put it at a slight angle, really dig it in. Now here's the trick, when you pull the knife out," and he slowly did so, "Drag the blade across her ribcage, you'll hit some rib. It's a very tender-" the woman screamed, a shrill, horrible sound, "-spot. Very painful."

At Alastair's side, Dean stood looking mildly ill despite his best attempts to school his expression into indifference. Alastair knew that Dean despised him, would kill him if he ever had the chance, and he didn't mind that. But expressing revulsion to torture, or sympathy, or anything remotely similar earned him what Alastair called 'remedial lessons'. Sort of like making the lazy kid in gym class run an extra lap around the track, but with more blood and intense, mind-numbing pain. Already, after six and a half months after his freedom from the rack, Dean was a 'novice' torturer. He'd learned ways to make it hurt in six months that he knew he'd have never learned in his whole life on Earth.

But this was Hell. So it made sense.

"So what? There some sort of Hell-school you took to learn all this crap, or is it just a demon thing?" Dean drawled. He'd gone from badass to broken heap after thirty years of torture, and now he'd given in to the concept of torturing to avoid being on the rack. But the past six months had given him some measure of rope with which to pull himself out of that tangled mess he'd become. A rope as bloodied as his hands, and he knew Alastair was waiting for Dean to hang himself with it.

But for now, Dean could afford to snark off a little. Because Alastair, for whatever reason, wanted him to torture and seemed amused by his attitude, and because what could they do to him that they hadn't done already?

Alastair's patient, chilling smile said more than words could even as he moved to the tool table beside Dean and corrected him. "It's not a demon thing anymore, Dean, it's a _you_ thing now." Alastair picked up a long razor and tapped the edge with his finger, satisfied at it's sharpness. "Still, since you asked, I was already an expert at my trade when I arrived down here. And once here, I had a very long time to develop my skills even further, with an unlimited supply of test-subjects." Alastair licked his lips as he turned back to the garish mess that the woman before him had become under his ministrations.

"Test-subjects. Right. So that's how you see human souls." Dean tried not to let Alastair see how deeply those words cut him. Dean was on the fast-track to having his humanity completely stripped away and becoming a demon. Becoming what he hunted. And in the back of his mind the worst thing he could think of was Sammy seeing him that way, coming back topside as a demon and facing his own brother as a monster. A monster Sam would have to kill-and that was a responsibility he didn't want his little brother to touch.

"Oh, no." Alastair corrected as he headed back over to the woman and grabbed her upper eyelid as he brought the razor closer as if to judge the best avenue for what he was about to do. "Humans are meat, Dean. Cattle. To be milked for all they're worth and slaughtered appropriately. That's why it's called a 'meat-suit'. Well, that and the obvious..."

"Please! Please stop! I'm begging you, please!" The woman was sobbing and screaming as Alastair addressed Dean before the demon calmly turned his attention back to the woman. "Now then, the eyes are a very sensitive organ. But you don't want to ruin them too quickly, because it's not generally as fun when they can't watch." Alastair explained. "Still, there are a variety of methods to deal with them...such as removing the outmost layer of the eye." he angled the razor above her eye, held open by his fingers as he brought it level down beside her eye, so that he'd be taking a very thin, upper chunk of her eyeball when he cut.

Dean had long since lost the reflex that would let the bile rise in his throat at that sight, but it still made his stomach turn as Alistair dragged the razor across and the woman let out a glass-shattering scream that rocked his eardrums. Dean was technically only a soul, but Hell gave him a corporeal form, it allowed him tactile sensations and experiences, and was like being alive again.

Alive enough to feel all of the pain inflicted on him, again, and again.

The woman was making an inhuman sort of squealing, shrieking noise-now lacking the outermost layer of her eye as tears and blood mingled down her face. "Now you try it on the other eye. Pick which tool you feel best suited." Alastair motioned to the tool table.

Dean may have been long past the gag reflex, but he couldn't stop the horror that rose in throat like a physical block and made him choke out his next words. "No freakin' way."

"Pick a tool, Dean." Alastair said patiently.

Dean didn't move, he just stared at Alastair with all of his hatred and his surpressed anger boiling in his expression.

"Pick a tool to use on her, or I'll pick one to use on you. And I won't be as gentle as I've been with her, Dean, you know how this works."

Dean did know, all too well. Having a slit in her eye would be a cake-walk compared to the elegant precision Alistair would use to tear Dean to shreds inside and out.

So he swallowed that painful, mental manifestation of bile in his throat and headed for the tool table where after a quick scan, he picked up a scalpel.

Alastair smiled, that chilling, hideous little smile. "Good choice."

Dean didn't bother to glance at Alastair as he made his way to the woman with his tool of choice in hand.

It was on that day that Dean impressed even Alastair when he discovered that you can remove an eye in such a way as to leave the sight in tact from the drooping organ.

And that they both discovered that Dean was uniquely gifted with a scalpel.

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**So...nothing terribly outstanding about this. Just a creepy, torturous little one-shot. The nameless demon from the first chapter is going to make an appearance or so as a sort of 'teacher's aide'. Yeah, so maybe that's all my own poetic license, but...I have plans for said aide later anyway, so I thought I'd throw him in this story because...I feel like it...anddd...I'll make him interesting? I dunno. More torture, AlxDean, Hellaciousness, and possibly some Hell-hound crack ahead. Who knows. XD Enjoy! Or be horrified, because I am a bit too. I feel a little unsanitary writing this, poor Dean. ;-; Bwah. **


	3. Year Two: Doggy

**I can't say I'm proud of these one-shots, it's not my best work and...I hate on people who torment poor Dean...but...it continues. I dunno why. XD Ah...maybe I'll hit gold sometime. We'll see. Otherwise I'm just amusing myself by getting to dip into sadistic writing. Who knows? Thanks for the review kissacazador, who is amazing for alerting me, faving me, and reviewing like an awesometastic soul. I shower you with virtual cookies and hugs. And thank you, those of you who read. I do appreciate it, and stalk the hit-count semi-dilligently. XD This next one-shot is somewhat...cracky...but...oh well. Technically, by the by, this would be year thirty-two, but I'm counting years as per starting when he got off the rack. I like it better that way. XD Anything 'Year Zero' is prior to his getting off the rack. XD Oh, and this is the nameless demon from the first story. By the by. XD **

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_Year Two_

He'd seen souls flayed, tortured, torn, ripped, split, sliced, diced, gutted, and any other painful word one could think of. He'd seen Hell-creatures that made monsters topside look like freakin' kittens. And he'd tortured plenty of souls already. He hadn't thought there could be much more, or anything to compare.

Until he'd been given dog-duty. The dogs being Hellhounds.

As in the damned things that had ripped him to shreds and dragged his soul to Hell.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do with him, he just knew that he'd been pulled away from the rack and told that he'd be taking his turn at 'dog-duty', and that someone was coming to instruct him. When he'd asked why Alistair wasn't doing it himself, Alistair had laughed in his face.

Apparently it was below his freakin' pay grade.

"Good morning, sunshine. I do love an early bird." A voice chimed from behind him, and Dean turned to find a man with black hair tied at the nape of his neck, and violet eyes smiling slightly at him. Dean was a little unnerved by those eyes, truth be told, he'd never seen eyes that color on any creature, let alone a demon. He was just slightly taller than Dean, somewhat lithe, and wearing a black suit with a purple tie that seemed entirely out of place downstairs. He'd seen him several times, actually, buddying up with Alistair. Dean had asked about him just once, and Alistair had smiled slyly and called him a 'prodigy'. But then, he'd called Dean the same thing, so what the Hell was that worth?

"Cut the crap, asshat, let's just get this over with." Dean said coldly. He had to bend over for Alistair sometimes, so to speak, but there was no way some demon flunky was getting a rise out of him.

"The name's Adaire , actually, but you can call me 'Addy'. Or hey, big bro works too, seeing as how we're both Al's kids."

"I'm not that prick's anything, and you ain't my brother, _asshat_." he emphasized. So much for not getting a rise, but save Alistair and a bunch of screaming souls, he hadn't had anyone to talk to in thirty-two years and his social skills weren't exactly up to their charming best.

The demon seem unpeturbed and he smiled slowly. His tone was perfectly friendly as he spoke his next words conversationally. "Really? I was under the impression that you were his favorite bitch. You do spread legs for him quite often, not your own, obviously but-"

"-Finish that sentence and you won't _have _any legs." Dean growled.

The demon held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, now. Let's not be hasty. I'm just here to help you, kiddo."

"Dean. My name is Dean." he hissed. Something about the other demon-or maybe just the fact that the demon was talking, _period_, pissed him off.

"Well, then, Deanie, shall we get to work?"

Dean pondered what effect chanting an exorcism down here might have on a demon, and decided it might be worth it to find out.

...

"Welcome to doggie Hell, Deanie." Adaire announced.

Dean might have threatened a slightly higher portion of Adaire's anatomy, if he weren't so busy staring into a pit of snarling, slavering, _Hellhounds_.

"Your job is to feed the dogs. Why can't they feed themselves, you might ask? It has to do with the fact that letting them run around tends to rapidly decrease the population of available souls, and that just won't do. They get fed about once a month or so, and often the stronger ones will feed on the weaker and so on."

What was it about demons and hearing themselves talk? Dean cast a scowl in Adaire's direction as he tried to make sense of the other's words. "What, you saying they eat souls or somethin'?"

Adaire smiled, and it was a cold smile indeed. "Exactly."

Dean's scowl slipped as he stared at Adaire. "You want me to feed live souls to these things?"

"I don't know if 'live' is quite the right term. But yes, that's the general idea." Dean continued to stare, and Adaire sighed. "You torment souls on a regular basis, and yet you're going to get prissy over tossing out a few? Come now, let's not play righteous, here, Deanie. You aren't very good at it." And there was a wealth of irony in that statement that Dean was a long ways off from understanding.

"I thought souls were kinda important around here." Dean said lowly.

"Yes, well, even the dogs have to eat. So we can always spare a few. I mean, it's not like there aren't plenty to go around and plenty coming. Humans are always selling their souls or damning themselves some way or another."

"That right?" Dean's expression was cold as was his tone as he mocked the demon. "So what'd you sell yours for? Those freaky ass eyes of yours?"

Adaire stiffened as his gaze slid from the Hellhounds to Dean, and for just a moment-for the first time in years, he felt a genuine sliver of fear run down his spine at the chilling look he was getting from said 'freaky ass eyes'. Eyes he made a mental note to never, _ever_ bring up again. And then the smile returned to Adaire's lips, unnerving and unnaturally wide. "Not quite. More like these eyes bought me my soul."

Dean wasn't sure to make of that statement, but he didn't want to be around the creep any more than he had to, so he looked away and muttered. "Where's the dog chow?"

"Good answer, love." Adaire said drawingly before he chuckled. "Dog chow, I like that one. Let's see, you just step over here and-" Adaire waved a hand over what seemed to be mid-air, "-And, whalah."

Bunched together in a completely walled-up room with spikes jutting out in all places save the door were a group of human souls.

"The weakest souls are dropped here to await feeding time." Adaire explained. "You just reach in and grab one, well, all of them. It's very convenient, it packs just as many souls as needed. No messy measuring or anything."

Dean fought the faintly sick feeling in his stomach as he eyed the souls. They were screaming, crying, begging, he recognized all of the signs. But he couldn't hear them through the walls, and he didn't want to watch as several were forced to get stabbed by those spikes, due to the limited space.

"Do what I do, alright?" Adaire reached a hand in and it passed right through the door as he roughly grabbed the nearest soul to him, a man, and jerked him out. The man was begging and sobbing, pleading to be released, and Adaire tilted his head with a smile that could almost be called kind. Except that it wasn't. "Of course I'll let you go." he assured the man, and as relief and hope started to slip into the man's eyes, he hurled him without preamble over the edge of the pit where the Hellhounds brutally and quickly tore him to bits.

Dean felt his body tense in anticipation of gagging, but it never came. He'd muscled his way past that reflex by now, and steeled himself against this kind of thing, he'd had to.

"Now it's your turn, just grab a soul, and throw. Careful not to let them latch on though, they're awfully clingy." Adaire advised. But when Dean just stared at him again, Adaire's eyes narrowed a fraction. "If you're thinking you can avoid it, you can't. Not unless you're willing to be put back on the rack, which is the only other place for a recalcitrant soul." Adaire warned.

Dean's hesitation slid away at that. Truth was, it was more than just wanting to save his own skin, he was resigned to it. Once he'd already tortured and flayed souls the way he had, Adaire was right-to be hesitant to toss out a soul was...a wasted effort. What the dogs would do to the soul wasn't nearly as bad as what Dean would-for agonizing hours-do to any soul that found it's way onto his operating table. So Dean did what he had to, and jerked a soul from the room. He didn't taunt it, or bother to listen to it, he just hurled it over the edge and forced himself to be cold about the whole affair. Dean had seen worse and done worse, this was nothing. The soul being torn to bits was nothing.

"Good job! See? That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Adaire's smile and good humor seemed to have returned as he all but beamed at Dean, who simply cast him a cold glance in response before he returned his attention to the room and pulled out another soul.

He didn't like it, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Dean had already pawned his humanity, so to speak, for the chance to get off the rack. No use in being 'righteous', as Adaire had put it, now.

He tossed it below without hesitation yet again, it was something he wanted to think about or dwell on. And it was something he regretted immediately as the soul clenched tight fingers around Dean's wrist and surprise, as well as the sudden momentum, caused him to lose his balance and slip over the edge. Dean was going to die, or whatever souls did, as frigging dog chow. He closed his eyes, braced for the impact, and awaited the feeling of being torn to bits.

But it never came.

Instead, he felt something indeed gripping his wrist tightly, but when he opened his eyes-it wasn't some soul. Adaire was leaned over the edge with an inhumanly tight grip on Dean's hand before he hauled the other up suddenly and tossed him up beside him. "I warned you, didn't I? Souls are clingy pricks." Adaire shook his head as he stared down at Dean, who in turned, stared up at him from the ground in rare surprise. It was hard to come by surprised in Hell, at least, once you'd been there for awhile. "That's why we use a 'buddy-system' for first-timers. We lose a lot interns otherwise." Adaire clucked his tongue like it was a shame, but Dean was fixed on the other's action itself.

"You pulled me up." Dean stated simply.

Adaire lifted a brow. "Yes, Deanie, I did. I do admire your grasp of the obvious. I'm all out of gold stars, but perhaps you'd like a cookie?" he asked as if speaking to a child, and he seemed quite amused.

"Why?" The question was as simple as his statement as he pushed himself up and frowned at Adaire. Demons didn't do nice shit for no good reason, if you could call it 'nice'.

Adaire seemed puzzled by the question. "Why? Please tell me you aren't defective or something, I'd really get annoyed then."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Forget it-"

"-No, no. Never let be said I contributed to ignorance through inaction." Dean started to snap at him, but Adaire was before him in an instant as he clamped a hand over Dean's mouth and shoved him up against a wall. Or rather, the window that separated the pleading souls from them.

Adaire's freaky, violet-colored eyes bored into Dean's green ones, and Adaire's strength trumped his own as he kept a painfully tight hand clamped over Dean's mouth, his nails slightly digging in, and used his other hand to grip Dean's wrists together and keep them held down at his sides and his back pressed up against the wall.

"You're special, Deanie. You're Alistair's apprentice. Moreover, you've got the makings of one _Hell_ of a demon. And further still, do you really think after all of the time spent on your sweet little ass, you'd ever get to just...be dog chow? You've got a long and brilliant future ahead of you, _little brother_, and I'm looking forward to seeing these lovely emerald eyes turn black. Or, if you're really lucky, maybe you'll get a colored pair, all the best demons do. You remember Azazel and his yellow-eyes, I suppose? That's what you call him, after all. Kind of a prick, that one, but can't deny his results."

Dean wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that last statement, but he didn't like his position one bit and he jerked a leg up to slam it in between Adaire's legs. Yeah, it was kind of a bitch move, but it was better than being jerked around by 'Addy'. He took advantage of the other's momentary distraction to slam a fist into his face and then ram one into his gut before he grabbed a fistful of Adaire's hair and jerked him towards the pit. Maybe he'd get in trouble for killing the freak, but he didn't care.

Just before they reached the edge, Adaire suddenly jerked his leg in a swift movement that caused Dean to go off-balance and their positions switched rapidly. Adaire gripped a tight, painful fist around Dean's neck and dug his nails in until they drew blood as he literally held Dean over the edge. There was still a smile on his lips, frosty and mocking, and equally matched to his tone as he let Dean dangle by the neck.

"You're a few centuries off from being able to best me, kiddo. And like I said, you're too special to be dog-chow. But I'm pretty special myself, and if I wanted to tear your lungs out through your mouth a couple of times to teach you a little respect for your elders, well...I'd probably be the one getting the cookie." Adaire drawled.

Adaire jerked Dean forward suddenly, back onto solid ground as he brought his face eerily close to Dean's, his lips just a faint span away from Dean's as he met his gaze again. "I'll give you this, you've got guts, kid. Don't make me have to rip them out." he advised before he shoved Dean away. "Run along back to Al, Deanie. I'll finish up here. Consider it a reward for being the first soul brave enough-or stupid enough-to attack me."

Dean understood now why Adaire was his predecessor, and he felt he might have an idea of why Alistair had called him a 'prodigy'.

And he understood that he never wanted to come within a frigging mile of the demon again, so Dean didn't hesitate to wordlessly turn and leave.

"Oh, and Deanie-" Adaire called after him, and he forced himself to pause and listen. "-I look forward to working with you again."

Dean, for the second time, felt a shiver run down his spine as he kept on walking.

Adaire smiled thoughtfully after him. He'd been unimpressed by Dean Winchester at first, but he was glad that he'd kept an open mind.

Dean was going to be _fun_.

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**Um. So. Yeah. Not the slightly crack-ish fic I'd intended. It ended up being morbid and Hellish sort of, which fits in with a bunch of Hell-shots, I suppose. It had some humorous moments? And offers of cookies? XD But, yeah. Hopefully you enjoyed Adaire, and he shall return in some other Hell-shots, but not all. And I have plans for him to be in a future major storyline, someday. XD He seems really chipper, but he's the type to happily slit someone's throat. Adaire reminds me a lot of Balthazar, and maybe the Joker. XD And Bela might even make an appearance. It would be pretty twisted to have Dean torture her, but I think there are better ideas to be used. More torture!morbidity!Hellishness! to come. And some Year Zero stories as well. [And more Alistair. Obviously]. A very twisted take on 'feeding the dogs'. XD [That was such inappropriate use of the XD _ ] Enjoy! [P.S. rare days off are win, I got so much work done today! -insert joy here-] XD Witchy~**


	4. Year One: Child

**And still, it continues. Well, here goes. XD Oh, and thank you for the faves and alerts, I do appreciate them, and while I know some of you may hate me for spilling Dean's guts, so to speak...I do quite enjoy reviews. They reassure me as to that I should keep writing, and bring me joy. XD By the by: Warning: There will be child torture-ish in here, although I'm going to tone it down as compared to what I'd do if it were an adult. Or maybe it will just be implied. Some enlightenment from Alistair..or something..we'll see. XD**

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_**Year One**_

"It's time for a change of pace. You've had plenty of fun with the outer layers, but now it's time to get a little deeper. I think you're ready for evisceration. It's a beautiful process, really. Different organs and veins elicit different responses, you'll figure out your favorites in time. I'm partial to the jugular, myself, cliche though it is. It bleeds so well. " Alistair announced as he trailed his fingers over the tool table, and landed on a long, thin knife.

Dean listened with rising revulsion and hatred. Alistair didn't talk often, unlike most demons in his experience, or rather-he said more with fewer words. But when he was 'teaching', he was all too willing to share. His simple words grew more complex and proper, like he got a kick out of playing laid-back professor.

But really, Dean knew it was just to screw with him. Just part of the games.

"Cut the crap. Let's just get this over with."

Alistair smiled, cold, slow, and laced with a cruelty that belied his more elderly appearance. "I do like an eager study." he murmured as he clenched a fist lightly and in so doing, summoned up the next soul.

Dean felt his blood run cold, or it would have, if he'd had it to run.

A writhing boy of ten or so squirmed in the bindings of the rack. A mop of brown hair on his face, unclad like the rest of the souls to be tortured, humiliated, and stripped of flesh and pride.

He looked like Sam. The messy hair and small, fragile body, the faint curve of his face. That was about where the similarities ended, but it was enough to strike memories of the little brother he tried to keep from his mind. Like remembering Sam would somehow let the other know what he had done-what he was still doing-and that Sam would deny his brother for it.

"What the Hell is this?" Dean tried not to show emotion, he tried not to react, but this was too much. His anger flared in his expression as he glared at Alistair.

"All these years down here, and you still choose _that_ word." Alistair clucked his tongue as if disappointed, and then he smiled vaguely. "What? You thought only grownups went to Hell, Dean?" He drawled, his tone patronizing. "You aren't the only ones that sell your souls, or that die with 'sin'. This slab of meat happened to be the latter." Alistair explained.

"Pick a new one." Dean growled.

Alistair clucked his tongue again, and he licked his lips slowly. He did that sometimes, like he was searching for the best words and tasting each one. The best way to hurt Dean, to egg him on, to break him. That's how it always was. "You know it doesn't work that way. You do your job, or you become the job. Or are you having second thoughts about not having your flesh ripped to bits?" Alistair asked calmly.

Dean fought a wince as some of the anger was replaced by a flicker of hesitation, of the painful memories forcing shivers to crawl up his spine. But this was...this was a _kid_. A kid who looked kinda like Sammy, and reminded him of all the things he tried not to remember, and made him feel like he'd gotten punched in the stomach. Dean didn't want to see what this kid thought of him, and he sure as Hell didn't want to see the kid torn apart. It was too much. "I won't." he said, but it was a little too weak, pushed past his gritted teeth and the sense of dread welling up in him. So far, he hadn't turned down someone to torture. Balked, maybe, but a flat-out turn-down? Not yet.

But it was a _kid_.

And for some reason, that made a difference.

Alistair eyed Dean in obvious disappointment before he shrugged and turned to the boy on the rack, watching with panicked, shifty eyes as he looked between Dean and Alistair. "Alexander...if I put this man on the rack instead of you, will you torture him? Will you cut him into little pieces?"

"What?" Dean hissed, and the boy's eyes widened.

"Yes!" The boy shouted, to Dean's surprise. Alistair looked intrigued, but Dean knew it was put on. "I'll cut off whatever you want, just let me go! Please, let me go!"

Alistair snapped his fingers, and Dean was unclad and bound on the rack while the boy now wore a pair of pants, a simple shirt, and stood beside Alistair. The tortured didn't get clothes, but they were a perk for a torturer.

Dean glared at Alistair, who looked back at him with a faintly smug expression. "I warned you, Dean...now you pay the piper."

"Fuck. You." Dean hissed.

"Start wherever you like-" Alistair said suddenly as he turned to the boy and offered him a razor, "You-ah-" For once, Alistair was genuinely surprised when he noticed the boy had already snatched up a weapon. A small, screw-driver-like object with a sharpened edge. "Interesting." he mused before he relenquished the razor to the table and waved a dismissive hand. "Well, then, torture away."

The boy didn't hesitate to move towards Dean, and his eyes widened. "Kid! Uh, Alex-come on, you don't know what you're doing-"

The kid's panicked expression melted into a sneer. "If I cut you up, then I don't get cut up. That's fine."

Just his luck. Stuck with the Michael Myers-in-training. "You-"

Dean's response was cut off as the boy gave a clumsy but firm jab of the screwdriver into his gut and he jerked in pain as he felt it puncture an organ and he gave out an unintentional sort of shout.

The boy jerked the screwdriver out before he shoved it back in, this time a little farther to the right, and already blood-courtesy of the 'authenticity' provided in Hell, pooled out of his stomach.

"F-Fuck!" Dean gritted his teeth as familiar waves of pain assaulted him.

The boy then tried to drag the screwdriver as if he wanted to tear Dean's stomach open, and Dean fought the urge to scream.

The boy finally gave up his fruitless task and jerked it back as he decided this time to go straight for his neck, and plunged it deep inside the hollow of his throat.

Dean choked up blood instantly as an acid shot of pain raced through him and spots danced in his vision. If it were Hell, he'd probably be dead already. He choked and fought against his restraints as instincts made him want to grab his wound, to stop the blood flow and grit against the pain. What the fuck was wrong with this kid?

But then...hadn't he been doing the same thing?

The boy jerked back the screwdriver with an almost gleeful look on his face as the blood spurted from Dean's neck, and Alistair grabbed the boy's wrist before he could deliver another blow. "Dean..." Alistair _tsked_. "See what your sympathy gets you? When it comes down to it, all humans are just animals, masquerading as something more. It's a dog-eat-dog world, and Hell is no exception."

Dean just gazed at Alistair through pain-scrunched eyes, his voice seemed distant against the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears as he gagged.

Alistair lifted a hand to Dean's throat and shoved his finger in the hole there with a violet twist, and a mottled, choked scream sounded from his throat before he pulled his finger back and Dean's throat was healed. "What'll it be, Dean? Will you do your job, or-"

"No!" The boy shrieked. "I'm doing it! Don't put me back on! Please! I'll do anything! I'll get his eyes next!"

"Bloodthirsty little meat-slab, isn't he, Dean? He had twin siblings, a brother and a sister, younger. He drowned them in the bathtub. He then tried to murder his mother when she tried to save them, and he killed himself in the process."

Dean felt revulsion well up in his bloodied throat. He'd said it before, hadn't he? Monsters he got, but humans? They were just crazy. Maybe Alistair had a point, and they were all pretending. But it didn't matter here. Here, you couldn't pretend. Here, it was torture or be tortured, that was the status quo.

"I'll do it." he croaked. Healed or not, he could _feel_ that screwdriver plunged in his throat, the violent tweak of Alistair's finger. He couldn't do it again, he couldn't go through that torture again, and again, and _again_. Dean had already screwed himself, there was no point in pretending otherwise-this was Hell, no 'masquerades' here. Just survival.

"No!" The boy shrieked, and with a snap of Alistair's fingers, Dean was clothed and fully healed, and the unclad boy writhed and squirmed against his restraints.

"Now then, we'll conclude the lesson with cutting out his heart, but in the meanwhile, we'll start small..." Alistair picked up the lesson like it hadn't been discontinued as he plucked up a razor and handed it to Dean. "Veins first. Pick a few you like the look of, and cut them open. How you cut determines how they bleed, and where, of course." Alistair explained as he moved closer and Dean followed grimly.

The boy shrieked again and Alistair motioned Dean forward.

Dean looked to the boy, the shrieking, murderous boy, and no longer saw Sam in any aspect of him. He didn't even really see a boy, or a child. Dean saw what he always saw, or was supposed to see, anyway. Another soul. Meat.

An animal.

Dean gripped his razor tight as he grabbed hold of the boy's arm and steadied it as he brought the razor down.

It was a dog-eat-dog world, after all.

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**So, yeah, just implied torture. I'm not too sure how to handle Al all the way, since our glimpses of Al were short, kind of psychologically torturing more than anything. He's very calm and cold. So I adapted that in Hell, as part of his 'game', he's...like this. Still psychologically torturing, enlightening, cold, calm, patronizing, yada yada...but he plays professor. If that makes sense. I dunno, maybe if I watch the Al scenes again, I'll glean better understanding. In the meanwhile-the torture continues. And I made myself a little sick with Dean's pain. ;-; Bleck. Don't hate me, I didn't come up with this, BLAME SERA GAMBLE AND THE WRITERS AND SUCH! So yes, more DeanxAl to come, DeanxAdaire, DeanxBela, Dean...? Torture lessons, torture, Year Zero stories, yada yada...**

**I am evil. ;-; -sob-**

**Thanks for your reviews, faves, and alerts, they brighten my day and reassure me to continue. Or something. XD ;-; -Witchy~**


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